


Mind of Madness

by Evil_is_Relative, Wynni



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Beside Himself, Gen, Mind of Madness, the eyes have him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17701028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_is_Relative/pseuds/Evil_is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynni/pseuds/Wynni
Summary: Before she made her family, before she became a famous bard, before she even defeated Alduin, Khajiit Dragonborn Telki met the Mad God, and unknowingly changed their lives forever.Written with Evil-is-Relative . Picture taken in my game, positioned by Bard66 , and shopped to perfection by Evil-is-Relative





	Mind of Madness

 

Water trickled and flowed, filling the grand room with the burbles and tinkles of sound, bubbling up from the Wellspring beneath the Tree behind the Throne, which sundered the streams to either side of the room, only to merge and vanish down a grate at the far end. Blue and orange flames flickered, occasionally reaching up to climb the walls, dying out in blazing sparks before they could find sustenance in the grey, perfectly aligned stone. The room was rigidly symmetrical, cut down the middle by a line delineated only by how it changed on either side. Breaking through the mathematical perfection was the Tree, which did what it wanted.

Of course, the people pacing across that invisible line, or reclining on either side of it, or standing at attention along the walls at intervals as perfectly spaced as the nearly seamless pillars, mostly did what they wanted as well.

“Oh, this is a disaster!” the slightly dirty Bosmer in red and gold robes wailed, tugging at the beard he was now allowed to have and was very proud of. “What shall we do? The Throne lies empty, and the land will crystallize and become sterile!”

The statuesque woman in gold armor rolled her honey-amber eyes, “Order is not invading, Dervenin. Jyggalag has no reason to Cleanse this land anymore.”

“Says it gives him hives, actually,” another woman shrugged, tossing long purple-black hair over her shoulder.

“Oh, by Azura!” the other Bosmer in the room wailed, collapsed on the steps as if he couldn’t bear to walk anymore. “By Azura!”

“Useful addition, Fanny,” Iila’s eyes rolled back up, her golden teeth winking out as one lip curled. “We’re left stunned at your input, as usual. Ow!” She jumped back, rubbing the unarmored side of her calf and looking severely down at the little glowering Altmer girl that had kicked her. “No kicking, Second Page!”

The girl whirled and glared mutinously around the room, then marched up to Dervenin and kicked him, too, before running up to the Bosmer  
  
on the stairs and cuddling his head, cooing. While Murril angry and protective was a lot better than Murril having a fit of madness, it usually left more bruises.

“Dervenin, did he say _why_ he won’t come back?” the dark woman, Rene, more often called Plumwickle (to her dismay), said soothingly.

Dervenin turned to her gratefully. While the Chief Seducer was more experienced dealing with the darker madness found in Dementia, this Priest of Mania tended to prefer her manner to that of the Chief Golden Saint. “He says he’s on vacation. Oh, but it has been so long!”

The Chiefs of the Saints and Seducers sighed in unison, then exchanged glances, quickly looking away. Dervenin began wailing again, loud enough fish started jumping up from the streams to shout insults at him. Murril plugged her ears with her fingers, her little brow furrowed in annoyance, and then everyone jumped and started as the front door on the Mania side slammed open.

“Is he- _-hic!-_ -back yet?” the tall Prince asked plaintively.

“No!” Rene cried, throwing up her hands.

“Oh. Crap. Had a fun- _-hic!-_ -thing I wanted to tell him ab- _-hic!-_ -bout,” he drooped, wobblingly turning himself around in the doorway to stagger away.

“Lord Sanguine!” Iila cried, rushing after him. The slap of her palm holding the door open made him turn, raising a red-striped eyebrow at her.

“Yes, Goldie? Wanna come see Mila? She- _-hic!-_ -misses you. Can’t have my steward- _-hic!-_ -moping so much. Interferes with the- _-hic!-_ -revelry.”

“Lord Sheogorath won’t listen to Dervenin and return,” she told him, putting every ounce of her distress in the words. “The only one that might call him back is Murril, and she cannot leave the Palace.”

Black eyes widened. “You want me to do it?”

Iila shook her head--a mere Golden Saint couldn’t ask such a thing of a Daedric Prince, not without possibly horrific consequences. “Your advice, Lord Sanguine. We fear if he’s Sheogorath much longer, he may lose Romulus.”

Sanguine’s entire expression stilled, the slackness of inebriation replaced with thoughtfulness. He had gotten along with Jyggalag-as-Sheogorath just fine, but the former Champion of Cyrodiil was one of the few true friends he had.

A mischievous smile curled his lips. “You know, I met the most interesting- _-hic!-_ -person the other day…”

~~~

Telki sat on the ‘porch’ of the Bard’s college, idly strumming her lute. Taking out an entire coven of would-be necromancers had been rough. Wolfskull Cave had been confusing, and more stairs, tunnels, and zealots than she had the time or patience for. Sniping the High Priestess had been rather anticlimactic when she finally reached the final tower.

This success, of course, meant all her mentors suddenly remembered various music-related artifacts she’d be _just perfect_ to retrieve for them. Since she’d taken up spelunking and all.

Telki had to remind them she hadn’t even bathed yet, much less rested. Their important quests would just have to wait. She needed at least a week.

A hubbub out in the street rose in volume, breaking into her awareness. People passed by the Bard’s College going to and from the Blue Palace, or from the well-to-do homes of the wealthy to the market or the lower areas where the servants lived. A Bosmer man in grubby farming clothing walked among them, looking scattered and distressed, reaching out to whoever was nearest. "The flame of my master burns low. Without him, we are all lost and forever gray... Please, help us!” he pleaded, taking the arm of a servant only to be brushed off. "Why does everyone ignore me? Why do you turn your heads? Why will no one help me?"

Telki whined low in the back of her throat. That little voice in the back of her head demanding ‘fix this’ wasn’t going to let this go. She deserved a break, dast it! She slopped up off her comfy sunwarmed corner to investigate. “Excuse me, sir, but what’s the matter?”

The haggard face brightened when he spotted her, running over and grabbing one of her hands, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. “You! You'll help me! You help people, right? That's what you do?"

“Yeppers, that’s me.” Telki sighed. “Not even had a proper rest yet, but you look about done in yourself. Are you hungry? Winking Skeever’s got a table for me whenever.”

“Oh, no. Not for me the food of the hearth, I must only eat in Mania at the table of the Duke. He gets very annoyed if I skip dinner with his Mother,” the Bosmer said, looking very nervous.

“Alright then, don’t want you in trouble with your duke. Maybe sit here and rest a moment with me? May I offer you some water while you tell your story?”

He blinked, looking as if she’d started talking Ta’agra at him. “Story? We have no time for stories! My master! He must be returned!”

Telki took a deep breath, reminding herself this poor man was at the end of his rope, reeling her own impatience back in. “I understand that much, but only you know how to get him back, and you need to tell me. While you tell me, I can sit with you in this nice shady spot, and keep your throat nice and comfortable with some water while you tell me what I need to do to retrieve your Master.” As she was talking, she led the poor man to her comfy spot, and offered him water from the covered rain barrel beside it. “Now, tell me what needs doing.”

“He needs to go home!” the man wailed, splashing water on himself as he flailed. “Someone needs to go in and get him! Not me, he won’t listen to me. He might come for the Second Page, but she never leaves, and bit me when I tried to bring her. But nothing I say can change his mind. Now he refuses to even see me. He says I interrupt his vacation! It's been so many years... Won't you please help?"

“Okay, let’s see if I can get him to come home. Where is he? I need to know what and how to do, dear.” Telki patted his hand consolingly, wondering how long before the poor man’s keeper caught up to them.

"Last I saw him, he was visiting a friend in the Blue Palace. But no one as mundane as the Jarl. No, no... such people are below him. No, he went into the forbidden wing of the palace, to speak with an old friend. Said it had been ages since they had last had tea."

Telki felt her inner Whiney Cat gearing up for a nice long caterwaul in the back of her head. “Of course, the forbidden wing. What else? There’s always something else.”

The man perked up, apparently realizing she was serious, or mistaking her acceptance for enthusiasm. "Oh and you'll need the hip bone... it's very important. No entering Pelagius' Wing without that." He thrust a human pelvic bone into her hands. Where he had been carrying it was anyone’s guess.

Oh Whiney Cat was in high dudgeon now, more necromancy. “Of course, more bones. How did I not see this coming,” Telki sighed. “Okay, I go to the Blue Palace, to the forbidden wing nobody visits, to seek your master, and I have to take this bone with me. And convince him to go home already. Have I got it all?”

“Wear this,” he said, pulling out a dingy handkerchief and trying to wind it about her head. “He mustn’t see your eyes, oh no, that could ruin the whole thing!”

“Shug, I ain’t covering my eyes. I need them to see what I’m doing. Maybe seeing my eyes, if they're that offensive, will make him go home faster.”

He paused, holding the handkerchief like he had forgotten it, blinking several times to process her refusal. “I suppose home remembering is better than here forgetting,” he said at last.

“Could be.” Telki tucked the awkward bone into her enchanted, bigger-on-the-inside drawstring pouch. “Welp, let me go get my stuff, and see what happens. Maybe your master will be home in time for dinner.” She certainly hoped so. She wanted to get back to her own vacation, thank you. She patted his shoulder as she got up to go pack her bags, wondering which potions she still had for dealing with nasty necromancers.

~~~

Where. The Hepcats. Did her stuff go? There she stood, in a dingy hallway, wondering if there really was anyone in the dusty old wing, then suddenly, she was in a misty garden, shivering and wearing what looked for all the world like a sleeping cap and quilted nightclothes. Telki was Not Happy.

She did not expect to see a garden tea party, consisting of two people, one of them boisterously insulting. A blonde nobleman slouched in his chair, back to her, whining about how much he had to do, while across from him, a handsome, rather manic-looking man in a brightly clashing suit listened sympathetically, pouring tea. Things were starting to add up, and she didn’t like what that summation was.

She stalked towards them, ears back and her tail stiff, announcing to all the world her displeasure. “Excuse me, sirs, but, what in Hepcats’ Names?”

The brightly dressed man glanced up at her, waving a hand negligently, “No Hepcats here, simply dear Pelagius.”

“Then I’m guessing you’re the one everyone’s missing at home? Panicking in my ear because you’re not there?”

“Oh?” his voice dropped an octave, sending shivers down her back before he finally, properly, looked at her, and went still a long moment.

“Can we wrap this up?” the blond man complained. “I have so many undesirables to contend with. Naysayers. Buffoons. Detractors. Why, my headsman hasn’t slept in three days!”

“This could take a while, may I have a seat?” Telki looked around for a chair to join the tea party.

“You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius,” the white-haired man said, getting out of his seat and handing Telki into a chair like a proper-bred Imperial, even scooting it in for her and pouring her tea while he talked. “What would your people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old?”

“Thank you, kind sir.” Telki winced at his answer to Pelagius, before that infernal imp nudged her to sass. “Well, I could tell you what they did. Really, I thought by now you might be ready for some fresh conversation, not rehashing old news over and over.”

“Tsk tsk,” the white-haired man said, placing a finger over her lips. “Let’s not upset dear Pelly.” Glancing back up to the man, a wide grin wrapped his face. “You are the best Septim that ever ruled! Well, except for that Martin fellow, but he turned into a dragon god, and that’s hardly sporting.”

Sitting back down, he examined Telki a long moment while Pelagius sighed. “You know, I was there for that whole sordid affair. Marvelous time! Butterflies, blood, a Fox, a severed head, and the cheese! To die for! Of course, that wasn’t in the cards, really…” he trailed off, fiddling with a cream treat.

“Funny you should mention. I studied the Oblivion Crisis for my bardic thesis. I find it interesting you remember it that way.” Telki scrunched her nose in disgust. “Everyone ‘won’ except the ones that deserved it.”

Tilting his head, the white eyes gleamed gold a moment before settling on that color. “Reeeeeeallly?”

“Martin? Dead. The Hero? Family lost and him lost to whatever finally took him. So many dead, so many lost, and all that anyone wants to crow about is glory and stuff that doesn’t really matter. Where’s Martin or Romulus’ happily ever after?” Telki sat back in a sulk, arms crossed. “I don’t think of that as a good time at all. It sucked troll snot.”

“Madness,” the man said, his accent switching from something Nordic to something vaguely Imperial. Telki’s ears twitched to hear it.

“I’m getting that message, which tells me who You are. So, what needs to happen to get you home before you don’t have a home to return to? I’m thinking a mad panic isn’t good for anybody.” Telki was a bit uncomfortable, to tell the truth. She’d survived cranky dragons and ruthless necromancers, but wasn’t sure how she’d fare against an angry Mad God. She liked her intestines where they were, thank you.

A doleful sigh brought both their attention to Pelagius, who threw up his hands. “Oh, fine. Return me to my ceaseless burdens and responsibilities!” With that, he vanished in a sphere of Conjuration, leaving an empty seat at the table.

Sheogorath pouted. “How rude!” he cried, Nordic accent back in place, “Can’t be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two.”

“That there’s another unfairness.” Tekli nodded to Pelagius’ empty spot. “You know Potema drove him mad with a cursed object? He was a perfectly normal, happy boy until she ‘gifted’ him. He didn’t deserve that, neither did Skyrim.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say ‘normal,’” Sheogorath corrected, propping his chin on his entwined fingers. “But that certainly didn’t help him any.” He seemed to find that rather amusing, for some reason.

“Well, all I’ve to go on are the old journals, and forgive me if it’s rude to ask, but, did you know him before he received the cursed object?”

“Didn’t know him after, either,” Sheogorath said with a smile. “You seem rather concerned about it, though.”

“Well, yeah, I rather have a thing against unfairness. Call it a character flaw, if you will.” Her pout was back. “I like fixing it where I find it.”

It was hard to tell exactly what he was looking at with his featureless eyes, but he examined her for a long moment before saying quietly, “Rather doom-driven, aren’t you?”

“Right now, all I’m driven to do is convince you to go home. Is it working yet?” She gave him her best cheeky smile.

“Hmm,” he said, leaning back and propping his feet on the table, juggling some cheeses and thoughtfully chewing on another piece. Abruptly, his feet came down and slammed on the tile hard enough to make her jump, hand slapping down on the table. “So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave. That’s right. I’m done. Holiday….complete. Time to return to the hum-drum day-to-day.”

“Buuuut? There’s always a but. What is it?”

He gave her a sinister, charming smile. “I do so enjoy it when the mortals know they’re being manipulated,” he said, giving her a wink. “There’s a condition. You have to find the way out first. Good luck with that.”

Telki sighed, and propped her feet up across from him, regarding him over her crossed arms. “What’s the rest of it?” She wasn’t a bard for nothing. “There’s a rest of it. The conditions et cetera ad nauseum.” She was quaking inside. Sanguine had been downright darling compared to the stories she’d read on Sheogorath, and here she was, trying to reason with madness. Doom driven didn’t cover it, she was the bloody Aedras’ jester.

Leaning back again, Sheogorath threw his arms out to encompass their surroundings. “Care to look around? This is not, I daresay, the Solitude Botanical Gardens.” Those eyes came back down to her. “Do you have any idea where you are? Where you truly are?”

Telki looked around. “Realm spans two hemispheres....you were talking to Pelagius...we’re where, his memories?”

That wickedly charming smile was back. “Welcome to the deceptively verdant mind of Emperor Pelagius the Third.”

“Why isn’t ever someplace nice? Just once, why can’t adventure find me someplace nice?” Telki laid her head on the table while she let Whiney Cat vent.

“Nice places sometimes aren’t so nice,” Sheogorath replied, patting her hand in sympathy.

“I’m guessing I’m not getting my gear back until you’re done with me?” Telki looked from her patted hand to his face.

“Why use that when you can use the Wabbajack?” he countered, spinning his hand until a staff appeared, then handing it to her. “Takes a bit more creativity than simply stabbing things.”

“How appropriate, now you can have three faces laughing at me.” Telki shrugged. “Well, the Aedra do, why not you too?” Telki prodded him with it. “And I don’t stab. I’m an archer.” She sniffed. She took careful note those deadwhite eyes were now a soft gold. That had to be important.

“Well, little archer, why don’t you head down that first path and see what you can see?” he suggested playfully, making shooing motions with his hands. “I find everything being out to get you so terribly entertaining.”

“Yeah yeah, but ain’t killed me yet, so there’s that.” She tapped the staff against the table. “Knock on wood.” She winked. “See you in a few.”

He raised both his eyebrows at her and watched her saunter on down the path. As she traveled, his voice eased out of the air around her. “You see, Pelagius’s mother was...well...let us say, ‘unique.’ You realized that already. Although, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose she was fairly average for a Septim. Anyway, that woman wielded fear like a cleaver. Or did she wield a cleaver and it made people afraid? I never get that part right…”

He continued as she climbed a set of Nordic-style stone steps to an Imperial-style arena, each side holding a private box. She was the only one in hers, though there were several seats, but across from her paced Pelagius, with two sitting courtiers in Dwemer armor. Below them, atronachs raged in battle.

“Oh, but she taught her son well,” Sheogorath was saying as the two storm atronachs blasted lightning at each other, arcs of electricity reaching up over the lip of the arena and making her jump back. “Pelly learned at a very early age that danger could come from anywhere. At any time. Delivered...from anyone.” That octave drop again, setting gooseflesh on her arms.

Telki idly took a bead at the woman across the arena. Did he have to make it so obvious? She wished now she had her bow. The shot was much trickier from a staff she never used before. Luckily, she hit the severe woman just as she intended.

The woman writhed, then transformed in a whirl of red light into a ravenous wolf, leaping for Pelagius as he cut her down. “Oh-ho!” Sheogorath crowed as the drama across the arena played out. “I thought you’d never figure it out! With the threat gone, Pelagius is under the delusion that he’s safe, which means you’ve helped him...sort of. And we’re that much closer to home.”

“Yippity. Skippity.” Telki sighed, slung the Wabbajack across her shoulder, and made her way back to the center, and picked the next path, deciding a clockwise pattern would ensure she didn’t lose which way she’d already been.

Sheogorath’s voice echoed around her again, “You’ve headed down the path of dreams. Strange things, dreams. I could tell you a tale, but I won’t. Anyway, our dear Pelly suffered from night terrors from a young age. All you need to do is find a way to wake him up. You’ll find his terrors easy to repel, but persistent.”

In the clearing, Pelagius slept fitfully on a nobles’ bed, looking entirely out of place surrounded by woodland. He cried out and tossed even as she watched.

She tried rousing him by shaking, but that did no good. Yelling, then yodeling, in his ear did nothing. Finally, fed up, she prodded him with the Wabbajack, huffing when he rolled over impatiently. Propping her hand on her hip, wondering what to try next, she turned just in time to see the first wolf come into the clearing, and she jacked’ it. Color her surprised to see it turn into a mere goat.

Her eyes narrowed. It was a puzzle, just like the arena. The nightmares were a distraction, and she’d been told to use the Wabbajack.

So she did.

On Pelagius.

One by one, his nightmares emerged, and she changed them to something harmless while they chased her, threw fireballs, and in one instance tried to hack her to bits. Finally, Pelagius woke, sitting up from the bed and walking off into the woods.

“Talk about a rough sleeper, sheesh!” Once again, Telki trudged back to the center, and took the next path. “Alright, now what?”

Sheogorath glanced up in surprise. “Now Pelagius just needs to worry about the several hundred legitimate threats to his life. But only during the day. Now. I’m trying to do the fishstick. It’s a delicate state of mind.” He shooed her toward the last path.

“I’m so taking a vacation myself when I’m done with this. No. Exceptions.” Telki walked carefully down the path.

“Ah, now this is a sad path,” Sheogorath’s voice wafted around her, apparently done with whatever the fishstick was. “Pelagius hated and feared many things. Assassins, wild dogs, the undead, pumpernickle...but the deepest, keenest hatred was for himself.”

The words faded away as the din of fighting could be heard. A man groaned in pain as the sound of fist meeting flesh reached her.

“What is this?” Telki watched, in horror, as Pelagius literally beat himself up. There stood a giant of himself, his face frozen in a rictus of rage, beating a much smaller version of himself. The smaller version wouldn’t run, and stayed gamely in the fight, attacking the giant all about the knees and ankles.

“The attacks he made on himself can be seen here fully. They are always carried out upon the weakest part of his fragile self. The self-loathing enhances Pelagius’ anger! Ah, but his self-confidence will shrink with every hit! You must bring the two into balance.”

“Well, I always did favor the underdog.” Telki twirled the Wabbajack into place, and fired on the giant, knocking him down to size, careful not to hit little Pelagius. The figure didn’t seem to notice, throwing himself at Pelagius again.

Through trial, error, and sheer dumb luck, she finally hit whatever objective there was, and Sheo declared her done. Thank Hepcats.

“I’m almost afraid to ask you what’s next.” She sat down at the table, huffing.

“Tea,” he replied, leaning over and refilling her cup. It was a surprisingly beautiful piece of porcelain, sculpted like a flower with a golden rim.

“Thank you, kind sir.” She took an appreciative sip.

He waved that off and sank back into his own chair, staring off into space while sipping his own tea. “So, heartless mortal that you are, you succeeded. Which means I have to honor my side of the bargain.” A slightly movement of his head suggested those featureless eyes flicked to her. “I...have been known to change my mind. So really, go.”

“Thank you.” Telki got up, prompted by some internal instinct to add, “Y’know, you need to talk a bit, you know where to find me. Probably up to my ears in trouble of some sort. I’ve certainly got the ears to listen.” She twitched them for emphasis.

“You’ll have enough problems without dealing with mine,” he predicted, rising when she did. “Well, I suppose it’s back to the Isles. The trouble Haskill can get up to when I’m away just boggles the mind. Now, let’s make sure I’m not forgetting anything. Clothes? Check. Beard? Check! Luggage...Now where did I leave my luggage?” he asked, looking around, confused.

“Luggage?” Telki tilted her head at him. She hadn’t noticed anything resembling any since she’d been here.

Sheograth looked up, face clearing. “Ah,” he said, and a sphere of Conjuration appeared, depositing the grubby Bosmer from the streets.

“Master, you’ve taken me back!” he cried, the relief in his voice palatable. “Does this mean we’re going home? Oh, I can’t wait to…”

“Yes, yes,” Sheogorath sighed, already sounding tired. “That’s quite enough celebration. Let’s send you on ahead, shall we?” he suggested, waving his hand again. The Bosmer vanished just as he had appeared.

“So, uhm, thanks for letting me use it, I guess?” Telki held the Wabbajack out to Sheogorath. “It’s almost as nice as my bow.”

He examined her a long moment, head tilted like a bird’s. “Keep it. As a symbol of my...Ah, just take the damn thing.”

Telki couldn’t help the snicker. “Between you and Sam, beginning to wonder if you Daedrics aren’t half bad.”

“We’re terrible,” he assured her bluntly, shoving his hands in his pockets, then restlessly moving to pack up the now clean tea set in a velvet-lined box.

“Sooo, you told me to scoot, but I have no idea which way is out, and I really, really don’t want to wear out my welcome. Help?”

He glanced at her again, as if he’d been lost in his thoughts, and chuckled. Striding over, he took the hand that wasn’t occupied with Wabbajack and kissed the back of it as if they were in court. “Good luck, hero,” he told her, the gold in his eyes shrinking to normal, blazing gold irises just before he and the glade vanished, dropping her lightly back into the dusty hall of the Pelagius wing. When he wanted, she idly thought, the Mad God had rather nice eyes.

~~~

The sound of the split stream was eclipsed completely by the wailing of two Pages, who had decided there was nothing left to do but sit in the middle of the Grand Hall and wail their displeasure. Fanny sat with his legs crossed, hands curled into fists and pressed against his chin, snot running down his face between the tear tracks, his bright yellow hair the only cheerful thing about him. Murril sat opposite, legs splayed in front of her, displaying a few bramble scratches on her bare calves and the mud clinging to her feet, arms limp beside her and face turned upward like an hungry baby bird. Her hair, as always, was a tangled mess that covered half her face, her oversized ears jutting out past her shoulders on either side.

Rubbing her head, Chief Mazken Rene fought the temptation to give up and join them.

“Tea?” a voice calm with what most mistook for sanity offered from beside her.

“No thank you, Haskill,” she sniffed, leaning against the pillar beside her and rubbing her own eyes. He handed her a bright green handkerchief. “Oh, thank you,” she said, blowing her nose with a loud honk.

“I thought he’d be back by now!” Iila claimed, the Aureal drooping beside the empty Throne. They’d built a fence of angry grummites tied to stakes around it. Anyone who got too close could enjoy the next hour being gnawed on by frogmen. It had been the Duke of Mania’s idea, though he’d only shown interest after the Duchess of Dementia made her fourth attempt at taking the throne for herself.

The door slammed open, an Aureal rushing in and looking around. “Goldie!” she cried, bouncing in place as her gaze found her Chief Aureal. “Goldie, Dervenin appeared in Mania. He’s beside himself!”

“Alright?” Iila said, clearly wondering what was out of the ordinary.

“Look at this!” a familiar voice had them all freezing, turning to look toward the door to the Dementia side. “Can’t I go on a little vacation without my Court falling to pieces?”

Cries of “Rommy!” and “Lord Sheogorath!” filled the hall, along with Fanny’s ecstatic “Grand Champion!” and Murril’s wordless shriek of joy as she threw herself into the arms of the Daedric Prince of Madness.

“Yeah, sorry, lost myself there for a while,” he said with a hint of sadness and bashfulness that had never been a part of the Old Sheogorath. His hair was still white, but his eyes were his normal gold now, though they’d been brown before his Ascension. He wore Sheogorath’s Mantle and carried the Staff of Sheogorath, but he was entirely Rommy now--or, as much as he ever was, anymore.

“Are you alright?” Iila asked hesitantly. “What brought you back?”

He shrugged. “I’m fine. Met the new Hero of the Age.” He frowned a bit, “Definitely not what I was expecting. Too cute. Martin would have glowed like a red coal, I think.” He worried about that. He only had impressions of the woman that had woken him up, his mind still too busy piecing itself back together to hold the memory well, but she had been kind, he knew.

Grand destinies weren’t easy on kind people.

Shaking that off, he glanced up and gave them a reassuring grin. “What are the chances, right? I must be some kind of magnet for random Dragonborn.”

Murril climbed him until he picked her up, cuddling her as he came into the room, raised an eyebrow at the Balliwog barricade, then glanced back at them. “The Duchess?”

“The Duchess,” they confirmed in unison.

He shook his head and flicked his fingers at the barricade, sending the balliwogs back to where they’d come from and turning the stakes to flowers that littered the floor around him. Turning, he took a deep breath and sat on the Throne.

The change in the Shivering Isles was palatable. As if a silent gong had been rung, or a shockwave ripped out from him, announcing the Lord of Madness had returned. He sat unmoving, eyes closed, a long while. Murril entertained herself by poking at the rolling eyeball in his Staff before eventually falling asleep. There was a lot to manage in the Isles. Many things needed to be assessed before he knew where to begin repairing the damage of his absence.

Day turned into night. The First Page made himself a little bed at the foot of the Throne. The Second Page refused to move from her favored spot, glowering at anyone who got too close. The Chiefs of the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers gave in to the inevitable and settled in to wait, and Haskill provided them all with tea and cheese. At last, as the light of dawn flooded over the Isles of Madness, the former Champion of Cyrodiil opened eyes hooded with guilt.

“What have I done?” he breathed, voice heavy with grief.

“The mantle you’ve taken will overtake you from time to time,” Haskill said flatly, “It’s hardly your fault.”

“I’ve been away too long…”

“Yes,” Rene agreed, standing and going to his side, putting her hands on her hips but keeping her expression gentle. This had been her Duke once, though she hadn’t been Cheif Mazken at the time, and she knew how to soothe those whose madness was darkness that turned inward. In Rommy’s case, that was giving him something to work towards, to make right his mistakes here, where he could never do so with his past. “We’ve kept things together as best we could, but you are the Mad God. We need you here. Vaermina’s nightmares have caused chaos, and Bal and Dagon have crept their influence in where the nature of the mad was turned in their favor. Herma-Mora wants the remnants of Jyggalag’s Library, and Mephala seeks to expand her power however she can. There was just enough of you left with us to keep them from outright attacking, but we need you to root them out.”

Rommy looked up at her, his gaze hardening. “Well, we’d best get to work then.”

He stood, placing Murril on her feet and collecting his Staff, striding out to make right his Realm. The clang of the door closing rang through the Great Hall, the orange and blue flames dimming themselves to coals. The Font burbled cheerfully, sending the joy and despair of insanity out into the Isles, nourishing the Tree that grew out of it.

At the base of the Tree, in the shadow of hundreds of leaves that couldn’t decide on either variety or color, a tiny, many-hued bud pushed its way out of the soft moss. Purples and violets pulsed over the clouded outside of the petals, absorbing the other colors before settling. It didn’t know what it was yet, but it was still very small. It had time to grow into whatever it was meant to become. So the bud remained there, unnoticed, waiting, until the Prince of Madness and the Last Dragonborn met once more, and it burst into ecstatic, rampant bloom.


End file.
